


Baby Steps

by executeGhost (textbookMobster)



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Be My Baby Daddy, F/F, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Healing, post-s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookMobster/pseuds/executeGhost
Summary: This is a story about building a home.





	1. Chapter 1

Ada doesn't think she'll ever know what peace feels like. She's always been the other half of a pair, part of a tension that is ineffable to the human experience. Because she loves Agatha, despite everything. Loves her, hates her, matches her ideals word for word, action for action. Ultimately, they are opposites sharing the same face. It almost feels inevitable, that they might some day destroy each other.

But Agatha is not her responsibility. Agatha is not her burden. Walking away has always been a choice. 

It seems selfish to voice such affirmations, even in her own mind. But selfishness can be a mechanism for change. And Ada knows that she has to be selfish if she wants to finally heal.

The pulse of the Founding Stone is joyous and strong underneath her feet, singing of its love for the children, for growth, for new beginnings. Ada sinks into that ancient consciousness, feels the Founding Stone welcome her— _Mistress! My Love! My Home!_ —and matches the beating of her heart with that ancient pulse, takes that extraordinary love and makes it her own.

Ada doesn't think she'll ever know peace, but this feels like a step in the right direction.

She resurfaces, notes the heat of the sun and the chime of her maglet signalling lunch, and stretches. "Shall we, Pendle?"

They find her deputy sulking among the stacks, reading intently. "Hecate, won't you join me in the Great Hall?"

"Is it that time already?" Hecate sighs and Transfers the book back in her room. "Pity, I'd just gotten to the good part."

"And what book has bewitched our lovely deputy? A sordid love affair between opposing potions mistresses perhaps?"

Hecate snorts. " _Please,_ Ada. I was reading about the history of magical reserves in Northern England. I'd just gotten to the bit where an upstart from the Circle of the Silver Star snuck among the mountain giants in the hopes of negotiating with them."

"Only you, Hecate."

They soak in the silence, eating a simple stew Ada had prepared for them the night before, the sound of cutlery the only conversation passing between the two. 

“You know, Ada,” Hecate says, cutting into the silence. “Everything that you make is so uniquely you. This stew for instance. It reminds me of home—not the one I grew up in, mind you. But the one I chose to make here.” She leaves the words _with you_ unsaid, though it passes easily enough between them. “It’s just the right amount of sweet, and it fills you up. Eating your stew makes me want to curl up in an armchair afterwards and finish my book.”

“Which you will no doubt do once we’re done,” Ada says, her cheeks glowing with embarrassed pride. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but what prompted this?”

Hecate frowns and chews a chunk of beef, considering her words. “You are one of my greatest friends, Ada. I . . . I'm afraid that I haven't been telling you that enough lately."

“Did Julie put you up to this?” Ada teases.

“Your therapist?” Hecate snorts. “I suppose I wouldn’t put it past that woman to try something like this.” She shakes her head. “No, Ada. Call it a moment of weakness.”

They return to their meal, pleased at the slight exchange.

Perhaps things would have settled into another quiet night at Cackle's, if not for their sudden visitor, stepping into the school grounds just as the sun is beginning to set. 

Ada is working her financial magic on a set of ledgers, when she feels the Founding Stone humming in delight. It leaves her with an impression: one that feels like sunlight and heat, a burst of colour that feels very much like excitement. She sets her pen aside and Transfers into the quadrangle, clasping her hands together and smiling at a startled Pippa. "Well met, Miss Pentangle." 

"Miss Cackle." Pippa tilts her head and presses hand to forehead. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I fear that I am running out of options."

Ada takes in her disheveled appearance, the trembling of her hands, the fire in her eyes, and nods. "Very well. Shall I bring us to my office or did you want Hecate present as well?"

Pippa lifts her lips in a caricature of a smile. "Your office will do."

* * *

There is a power to language, one that grips, stirs the heart, expands the mind. Hecate has always considered books to be an escape. She finds them comforting, not just in the way that they bring her into other worlds, but also in the way that they give her knowledge so freely.

She loves to read in the silence of her room, uttering every word as if it were a favourite. She shapes the words slowly, and with reverence, listens to the heat in her voice, the liquid sorrow. She allows herself to feel when she's like this, spellbound by a book. It's measurable. Easily contained. 

And she can stop at any time.

She sets the book aside, torn between her grief for the mountain giants, and her fury that a well-regarded coven would sink to such despicable tactics to get what they want. She itches for some kind of release, and sets herself to work before she's got a potion fully-formed in her mind.

Bluebells, she thinks, and chops them into fine strands. The Hyacinth pods she crushes and sets to a boil. It's beginning to come together, an impression of grief carved in her mind, but also of healing. Phoenix tears are hard to harvest, especially when so many are hunted for sport, so she settles for the purifying qualities of silver, crude, but no less effective, its usual side-effects counteracted by a slice of flametongue harvested from an adult fire salamander and matured for two hundred and fifty days. It's a lovely shade of violet once she's done—a textbook perfect antidote for Basilisk venom. The very same venom that felled the giants.

She's almost done bottling the antidote when she sees the door to the potions lab open and Pendle standing by the door: a summons. She leaves the antidotes chilling on a tray, sets a stasis charm around her work table, and makes for Ada's office, tucking away that same grief behind an iron door.

"You asked for me?" Hecate's eyes settle on a familiar figure in pink and she freezes.

"Hecate." Pippa's voice is as strong and melodic as she remembers.

“Pippa.” 

Hecate has long since made peace with her ghost. The blonde beauty that haunted her dreams, the weight of Hecate’s betrayal cracking that serene visage into pieces—it tortured her, some nights, wishing she had been strong enough to stay for Pippa. After a while, the memories had faded, and Pippa’s ghost had looked at her with eyes that were filled with forgiveness. And things were better.

It was unfortunate then, that Hecate hasn’t made her peace with the woman now sitting before her. Oh, they are friends now for sure, but Pippa doesn’t know the truth of Hecate’s pain: the real reason why she left Pippa behind. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Hecate asks, making her way behind Ada as if erecting a wall. 

“I’ll make this brief,” Pippa says, apologetic. “I’m officially retiring as of this September. My Deputy will replace me as Head Teacher and we’ve found a suitable replacement in young Amara Grimsbane. However, the Magic Council in their _eternal_ wisdom believe that the academy should remain a Pentangle school, which means that I have to provide an heir.”

“An heir?” Hecate asks, voice dangerously soft. She breathes—much too shallow—and reaches for her pendant watch, focusing on the cool surface, the ridged knob. She feels the tick-tock of the clock like a small heartbeat, but the pulse of her own is wild and frenetic and much too loud. “Have you considered a candidate?”

Pippa smiles, pained, and clutches onto a borrowed blanket, unable to look up. “They would never accept Raoul, even if I fought for him. He’s non-magical, you see?”

An Ordinary lover, Hecate thinks, feeling faint. “Who then?”

“Well, I was hoping that, as my best friend, you could be the other parent of my child.”

The words ring hollow in her ears. _Best friend—parent of my child._ She feels her body heat up: a crucible of emotions burning steadily inside of her. That heat, pulsing underneath her skin, sears against old aches, brings them alive and makes her stiffen, unable to cry out, unable to _move_. There are thirty years' worth of emotions stuck in her throat and she wants to scream it all out. To _demand_. I want more.

But she can't have more. Has drawn up the lines, put down brick by brick a wall between them. 

_Is this my punishment?_ No. She sees the shining hope in Pippa's eyes and it feels like her world is crumpling. Like someone has found her edges and compressed her into a small, mean, angry thing. "I'll need time to think," she says, voice rough, and Transfers in a sudden rush of power. The cool air greets her mockingly, the light of the full moon offering little comfort against that burning crucible. She braces herself against the parapet overlooking the school, her stance defiant against the stretch of stars before her. 

"What would you have me do?" She wants to ask that vast emptiness. "Confess thirty years too late?"

Still—to have a child with Pippa—the very thought of it robs Hecate of her breath. 

From a purely emotional standpoint, she knows that she wants this without a doubt. She is selfish and guarded, and a child, their child, would link her irrevocably to Pippa, regardless of where their feelings stand. 

Which is why Hecate has to say no.

Because she will not bind Pippa to her—not like this. She loves Pippa. Doesn’t want anyone else but Pippa. 

And it’s not fair for either of them.

“Hecate.” 

“Ada.” Hecate listens to the beat of her heart, slow and measured, and wonders if Ada can see right through her.

“I’m afraid Pippa had to leave. She has a young boy waiting for her at home, and no other guardian who can look after him.”

“A young boy?”

“I believe she called him Raoul? I do hope you were listening, my dear. She expects a reply tomorrow, you know.” Ada sighs and leans against the stone embrasure next to hers. “Do give her a clear answer. She deserves that much.”

“I thought—“ 

“Yes, Hecate?” 

“Are you sure this Raoul is her ward?” Hecate asks weakly.

“He’s the reason she’s retiring.” Ada shivers from the cold and summons a blanket over her shoulders, pulling it tight around her frail frame. “With his father in prison, and no magical school allowed to take him in as a student, she had no choice. It was this or the orphanage.”

Oh.

“Don’t give me that look, Hecate. If you want to know more about Raoul ask Pippa yourself.” Ada sighs. “Although I can understand why she wouldn’t want to talk about him. His non-magical mother dead from an accident, his father imprisoned for trying to raise the dead. It would be a real shame for others to think of him as the Necromancer’s son. You would do well to avoid any direct questions, Hecate. For both their sakes.”

“I promise I won’t, Ada.”

“Then come back inside. There is no need to suffer the cold for a bit of navel-gazing.” 

Hecate watches Ada go and relaxes, feels the last of her heat ebbing away. _Perhaps,_ she thinks, _there is wisdom to Ada's words._

She has suffered the coldness of her thoughts for too long. It is time she defer to the wisdom—to the heat of her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I considered writing a Potions Mistress AU where Hecate and Pippa would clash over academic papers and the occasional potions-brewing contest, finding love in the heat of battle. Now it'll just have to be Ada's little friendfic of them. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

Hecate's never been to Pippa's cabin before. 

She's received invitations of course, over the last two years since rekindling their friendship. But Pippa's personal space has always felt impenetrable. There's an invisible line that separates Hecate's world from Pippa's. A line that blends light and shadow, truth and mystery. All of Hecate's close-guarded secrets—would they come to light under Pippa's scrutiny? 

_Better to keep my distance,_ Hecate thinks. But also: _Let them come to light._

And just like that, she cracks. 

She finds it hard to breathe, submerged in her own insecurities, in the duality of her feelings. She feels torn in two, rendered immobile by the tension of competing interests, acid burning in her throat. 

_Focus, you wretched fool!_ The words roar through her mind, an invocation, calling from her vast reservoir of memories the brittle, paper-white skin, thin blood-red lips, sharp canines snarling at her. She feels the bite of Miss Broomhead's words, and flinches as if struck by an invisible force. She stumbles backwards, sees Pippa's cabin in the distance, and runs, long limbs trembling, unused to the uneven ground of the hill, the heat of the morning sun bearing down on her as if handing out a judgement. 

She's back in the nearby hamlet, finding purchase among one of the stone buildings, and clings, her lungs fiercely aching. Her eyesight blurs, light and shadow bleeding into each other. _Won't you keep my secrets?_ She can almost feel Miss Broomhead's breath tickling the back of her neck, and resists the urge to swat empty air.

_You cannot keep me shackled forever._

Hecate spots a small bakery nearby, unfolds to her full height, and wipes the sweat off her brow. With her reclaimed dignity (like liquid gold still spilling from her grasp), she steps into the small shop and gives the old woman by the counter a half-smile. "I have a dear friend who is very fond of sweets. I'd like to indulge her, but I'm afraid I've never had much of a sweet tooth."

When she Transfers in front of Pippa's cabin a second time, she finds it all too easy to walk up the steps and knock on Pippa's door. 

Perhaps it is an unwise thing, to bare herself to Pippa, to let the truth of her brokenness come to light. But she has rebuilt herself, piece by piece, made a life at Miss Cackle's that she could be proud of, that she could superimpose against the image of her youth, and find progress that arises in their differences. She is a creature of kinetic energy; the only way to move forward is to keep going.

"Hecate," Pippa says, the warmth of her voice soothing away the last of Hecate's worries. She foregoes the usual salutation in favour of grabbing Hecate's wrist and pulling her inside, allowing Hecate a glimpse of the living room before she's ushered into the kitchen area. "Raoul and I are just about to have breakfast. Would you care to join us?"

"I'd love to," Hecate says. She offers a small box full of pastries in one hand and pretends at indifference when Pippa kisses her on the cheek, delighted at Hecate's gift.

"Is she also going to be my mother?" 

Raoul is short but slender, a mop of messy brown curls framing a thin, angular face. He feels achingly familiar with his somber expression, and the way he holds himself, all too aware of how much space he's taking in—it's as if Hecate is looking at a mirror.

"No one is asking you to replace your mother, Raoul," Pippa says, placing a steaming plate in front of him full of eggs, ham, sausages, and beans, a slice of tomato adding colour to the small feast. Hecate can tell from the way he hunches his shoulders slightly that the food is too much.

"I'm not too hungry," Hecate says, sitting on the chair opposite Raoul's. "Perhaps I can eat Raoul's leftovers once he's done with them?"

Pippa frowns. "Hecate—" 

Hecate reaches for her hand and squeezes. "I know you have enough for three, Pippa." _I know that you can provide for me the way my father never could._

To Pippa's left, Raoul gives her an awkward smile. "I'm really not used to eating so much in the morning, Auntie Pip."

She tucks a stray strand back and sighs. "If you insist."

Hecate watches them dig in over a cup of tea, spiced just the way she likes it. The domesticity of it settles into her chest like a nesting bird. She wants to hold on to this vision before her, but she feels that if she holds on too tight, it would slip from her grasp like a bird frightened of its captor. 

“You’re not what I expected,” Raoul says and takes a bite of his ham. 

“I hope I didn’t disappoint.” There's a note of sarcasm there: a defense mechanism.

He chews carefully, savouring each bite. “It looks like Auntie Pip has better taste than I give her credit for.”

“Raoul!” Pippa squeaks and tries to give the boy a meaningful look that Hecate finds all too amusing.

“Pippa has always had good taste in friends,” Hecate says softly.

“My father tried to raise the dead, Miss Hardbroom.” Raoul offers his plate to her and leans back. “And he considers Auntie Pip one of his closest friends.”

He excuses himself from the table and leaves once he's washed his hands and thanked Pippa for breakfast. It's clear now that he's upset, and that he's expressing that upset in sharp and bitter ways.

“He doesn’t mean it, you know.” Pippa says after he’s gone, staring at Raoul’s half-finished glass. She’s exhausted, and the slight rings around her eyes suggest that she didn’t sleep much the night before.

“I know,” Hecate says. “He’s a lot like me, when I was around that age.” She gives Pippa’s hand a fond squeeze and picks up a fork to sample some of Pippa’s cooking. “I’m glad it’s you looking after him, Pippa. I think you’d make a good mother.”

“Is this,” Pippa says, tracing patterns on the pastel table cloth, “where you tell me that you can’t have a baby with me because you wouldn’t make a good mother?”

Hecate knows, of course, that Pippa would eventually ask. It's on both of their minds; it's the reason that they're having breakfast together in Pippa's quaint little cottage right now. Still, the question hits her like a blow to Hecate's gut, knocking the wind out of her.

Hecate catches her gaze, and sees Pippa bracing for the worst, grief etched plainly in her expression. She wants to reach beyond that gap and smooth away those worry lines, to brush her thumb against those full lips, cup her neck and—

—shuts that desperate need inside the iron door where she’s kept everything else locked away. 

“I can’t, Pippa. It’s not because I consider myself inadequate, though I can understand why you’d think that. I haven’t been a good role model to the children lately.” She essays a smile, wipes the wetness from her cheeks, and continues before Pippa could misunderstand, “It wouldn’t be fair for either of us if I said yes, Pippa.” 

“Hecate—“

“I love you, Pippa. I have loved you since we were children, since before I fully understood the shape of my feelings for you.” Hecate pulls away from Pippa’s space and holds on to the pendant watch hanging around her neck. “I think it would destroy me to raise a child with you but not have you.”

* * *

Under different circumstances, Pippa would have been looking forward to today. She rarely gets to see Hecate because of the nature of their schedules. Worse, she’s never gotten Hecate to visit her when she’s back in her cottage during the summer holidays; Hecate’s always so dreadfully busy between her duties as deputy and her work as a potions mistress in the scholarly field. 

But things are different now that Pippa has a son. 

Because he’s broken somehow and she’s not sure how to put him back together. And she’s too afraid to do anything and risk breaking him more. 

And the Council wants her to have a baby on top of looking after Raoul? All because she had wanted a better life for the son of a Necromancer?

Sometimes she really hates the Council and their petty demands—their self-righteous fury and their blatant disregard for non-magical life. Sure, they don’t kill Ordinary folk anymore, but sometimes Pippa gets the impression that everything else is fair game to them.

“Do you need help with anything?” Raoul asks. He’s standing near the backdoor leading outside, hovering close to the exit in case he needs to run. The thought of it makes Pippa’s heart break a little. 

“I’m quite alright, love.” She sets cutlery on the table by hand, not wanting to alienate him with displays of magic. “But thank you for asking. Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

He shrugs, bird-like, and takes a seat with cautious care. “If I’m not intruding,” he says. 

“You won’t.” 

The protective wards around her cottage brush against her senses, alerting her to a presence outside. She hears a knock on her door and puts her biggest smile on.

Everything kind of falls apart from there. 

Hecate is stunning in the sunlight, the crinkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the gentle slope of her neck doing terrible things to Pippa's insides. She maintains the smile, ushers Hecate inside, and fusses over them while she serves breakfast. (The dessert is a sweet surprise, one that leaves Pippa warm and cold all at once.)

Conversation is strained, and all too soon, Raoul is out of her sight, probably burrowing in his room and reading a book from her collection.

“I’m glad it’s you looking after him, Pippa. I think you’d make a good mother.”

She’s falling apart at the seams, upset in a trembling, teary sort of way, but angry too—warm all over, the heat pressing uncomfortably against her skin. She wants to tell Hecate not to waste her time, to keep her rejection brief so that Pippa can return to her quarters and tear herself apart a little before she can pick up the pieces again and consider her options with more grace than she feels she possesses. She offers an approximation of those words, twisted by the sharp bitterness that erodes her insides. 

Hecate’s words surprise her.

“You love me?” Pippa asks, barely more than a squeak. 

“With all my heart.”

And Pippa finds that she’s unable to stop laughing, choking on tears that she’s held back for so long. There should have been a lightness in her heart, the revelation of Hecate’s love a relief. Instead, the weight of their thirty-year feud presses down on her, mocks her for all the endless possibilities that have slipped her grasp, and all because of a miscommunication? “I loved you back,” she says, and the words strike Hecate like an accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I wasn’t ready for love,” Hecate says. 

Pippa breathes in her truth, the air clear and sweet, and accepts the plain black handkerchief that Hecate offers her. “And now?” 

“I ask only patience in all things.” Pippa examines Hecate's face carefully and finds her pain mirrored in Hecate's quivering lips, in all the soft edges she's tried to hide over the years. “I hadn’t anticipated this particular outcome.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Hecate returns home, lips tingling from a goodbye kiss, skin humming from the weight of Pippa's hands on her hips, firm and unyielding. The world feels much the same, and yet, how could it be when the woman she's loved for so long returns her affection all this time?

She thinks she should be giddy over the prospect of something more between them—the promise of intimacy finally within her grasp. Instead she feels calm, more centred than she's ever been. The cold part of her wants to chart out a course, to plan milestones as if a relationship could be predictable. Measurable. The warm part of her wants to yield to impulse, to engulf Pippa's space like wildfire, to consume.

But there would be time for that. For whatever shape their relationship takes. 

She feels Morgana's penetrating gaze and crouches down, allowing the black cat access to her shoulders. With her familiar curled around her neck, she makes her way to her quarters, relaxing to the sound of her cat's rumbling purr. 

"You wouldn't believe the day that I've had, Morgana."

Morgana gives her an impression of a student, trying to coax her into playing with a bright pink feather. Hecate laughs openly and unlocks her door, waiting patiently while Morgana uses her slanted arm to launch herself on an empty spot on the bookshelf. "You're quite right," she says. "I suppose I should dispense with the teasing."

Pippa is before Morgana’s time, before Hecate found a kitten making herself comfortable on Hecate’s desk her first year teaching at Miss Cackle’s. Still, the cat is more than familiar with stories of the woman who’s ensnared her mistress’s heart. It’s hard to divorce the two—not when so many of Hecate’s good memories come from Pippa. 

She listens with half an eye open as Hecate recounts the day’s events to her, remarking with a yawn once Hecate is finished. She treats her mistress with an image of Hecate firmly under a cat’s paw—Pippa’s, if Hecate had to guess from the image of pink toe beans and the brush of soft burnt orange fur against her collarbone. 

“I suppose I am,” Hecate says, amused. “Are you going to cause trouble, Morgana?” 

The cat doesn’t dignify her with a response. 

She picks up one of the books she’s dismantled—torn to pieces with her sticky notes and elegant writing, all compressed near the margins, and settles on the leather chair that Ada had gifted her after her tenth year at Miss Cackle’s. 

On the front page is a note from her former student. It says, “I look forward to your thoughts, HB.” 

She cracks a smile and sets to work. 

By the time she makes it down to the Great Hall, Ada is seated on her throne, working through a steaming plate of baked fish and greens. “I apologize for starting without you,” Ada says. “I’ve been strengthening the school wards today and it’s left me quite famished.”

“Don’t starve on my account,” Hecate says, joining her. 

“I don’t plan to.” Ada watches Hecate take a bite of the fish and asks, “So I assume a baby is on the way?” 

Hecate chokes and reaches for her water, shooting Ada a dirty look. “Please, Ada. If you must know we’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”

“You don’t have to censure yourself for my sake, Hecate. I’m old—not celibate.”

“I mean we’re asking the old gods to provide for us.” Hecate remembers one of the Archwoods she’s visited in her youth, Morgana at her heels. It was a strange and ancient place, hidden by the mists, accessible only to those it deemed worthy. She hopes that they would find her worthy again. 

“The old gods. . . .” Ada shakes her head, stunned. "I might expect this from you, but from Pippa? Surely the Modern ways are more accessible?"

Hecate pretends at indifference when she says, “Pippa said that there is still some merit in doing things the old way.” She keeps her expression neutral even as she recalls the elation swelling in her breast when Pippa suggested the old ritual. _I would not have your body as a means to an end, Hiccup. Never ever. You have my word._

“You will need a witness,” Ada says. “And a familiar to guide the way.”

“Morgana has already offered.” Shyly, Hecate glances up at her oldest friend. “And I would be honoured to have you as our witness.”

“It would be my pleasure, Hecate.” 

* * *

There’s a memory that Hecate remembers with crystal clarity, a memory that she reaches for in the dead of night, her mind foggy with sleep, her heart aching for approval. 

She’s young, all limbs and determined energy, feet balanced precariously on a stepladder, fingers brushing an old red spine with quiet reverence. Warm arms envelope her from behind and she’s lifted into the air as a buttery smooth chuckle vibrates through her. “Hecate,” her mother whispers into her ear and she melts—lets herself get carried, head tucked under her mother’s chin. 

She remembers sitting on her mother’s lap, listening to her mellifluous voice, enraptured by every new story that her mother weaves. She remembers her mother’s gentle hands and the way they made her feel safe, cocooned in her mother’s love.

It’s a soothing balm against the bleeding light of her spiraling nightmares.

She holds on to that memory even as her body rebels, reminding her of heartbreak and betrayal, of self-loathing wrapped up in rational words.

She holds on even as she feels compelled to get up, to busy her hands with routine. The Wide-Awake Potion burns in her throat, chasing away the headache that's building at the back of her head. She studiously ignores the way it sharpens her senses—the prickle of cold against her skin, the too-bright light of dawn filtering into her room—and rearranges her bed before attending to her hair. 

She breathes in her routine and lets go of every feeling of inadequacy, every hurt, every sliver of anger that tries to worm its way in her chest.

It—helps.

By the time she makes it down the castle path, she feels much more like her usual self, purpose in her easy gait. 

"Heading out again, Hecate?" Ada asks. She's wearing a long, floppy sun hat today, carrying a basket in one hand and gardening gloves in the other; it's her turn to collect potion ingredients it seems.

"We're having dinner later with Pippa's father." Hecate hesitates, a question on her lips.

Ada hears it just fine in the way Hecate tilts her head, concern plain in her face. "It's quite alright, my dear. I'm sure I can survive a day without you."

Hecate nods and turns to go. "May I—if you'd like some company, that is—may I suggest Julie Hubble?"

"Are you trying to set me up, Hecate?"

Hecate cracks a smile. "Ms. Hubble's been a good influence on you lately."

"Well, she _is_ my therapist, dear." Ada sighs. "But if you insist, Hecate. I suppose there's no harm in asking."

* * *

"Julie Hubble and Ada Cackle?" Pippa asks, vibrating with excitement. "They'd make quite the pair, don't you think?"

Hecate arches an eyebrow and lifts the teacup to her lips, feigning disinterest.

"Oh, don't give me that look!" Pippa sits on Hecate's lap, almost making her spill her tea, and crosses her legs, eyes narrowed as she leans forward. "Spill, Hecate."

"I almost did," Hecate drawls, setting her cup down on the coffee table. 

"You know what I mean!"

Hecate rests a hand on Pippa's hip and chuckles. "Forgive me, but I'm a little bit preoccupied right now."

"You've got it real bad for her, Auntie Pip," Raoul says from across the room, hugging a book close to his chest.

Pippa squeaks and almost elbows Hecate. "Raoul!"

"I can go down the village if you'd like," he offers, expression mild. "Papa asks me to go all the time whenever he's busy with . . . s-stuff."

"Oh, Raoul." Pippa beckons for him to come closer and slides out of Hecate's lap. "We've just been gossiping."

"Mhhm." He takes the chair closer to Hecate, allowing her a better glimpse of the book he's currently reading. "I'm glad you've finally caught on, Miss Hardbroom," he says in a loud whisper. "Auntie Pip talks about you _all_ the time with Papa. And then when he left, she would talk about you _all_ the time with me. It was getting a little tiring."

"Is that so?" Hecate practically purrs.

He nods solemnly. "I was convinced for the longest time that you were her secret girlfriend. Imagine my surprise."

"You're ganging up on me!"

"Only because we love you, dear."

"You do?" Pippa asks.

Raoul shrugs, embarrassed. "Of course. I mean, you took me in after my father had to go away. A-and you've been nothing but kind to me, Auntie Pip."

Hecate feels Pippa's grip on her arm tighten and smiles. They had talked about Raoul briefly, after Hecate's confession the day before. While the boy was quick to tease, his words sometimes had teeth, and it hurt Pippa more than she had initially let on. "You're easy to love, Pippa," Hecate says, reaching for her hand and tangling their fingers together. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Pippa rests her head on Hecate's shoulder, relaxing into her warmth. "Thank you."

They sit in silence for a time, content to let things be, simply basking in each other’s presence. Eventually, Pippa stirs and presses a kiss along Hecate’s neck once she’s sure Raoul isn’t looking. “I didn’t think I’d have this,” she confesses. “At most I had hoped—“ 

_My friendship,_ Hecate thinks. _Raoul’s happiness._ She feels Pippa tremble against her side and kisses her forehead, wishing she could assuage Pippa’s doubts in a more tangible way. “I’m glad you do,” she says, voice equally soft. 

“You’re the best, Hecate,” Pippa murmurs, breath warm against her neck.

“Only because you bring out the best in me.”

Besides them, Raoul grins behind his copy of _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ , and turns to the next page. It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't read already, [a short fic](https://executeghost.tumblr.com/post/178080734654/the-cat-fic-nobody-asked-for) about Morgana and Hecate's early days together.


	4. Chapter 4

John Pentangle is tall and broad-shouldered in Hecate’s youth, an impression of safety in his kindly blue eyes and open smile. He has many of Pippa’s best features, but also her mulish tenacity and her tendency to latch on to lost causes. 

The John Pentangle standing by the front porch is a looming figure in the distance. He has the same broadness that Hecate remembers, and his clean-shaven face is now framed by a neatly-trimmed beard, while his long, white hair is tied up in a neat bun. He’s . . . soft in the way fathers are not supposed to be soft—the way her father had never been soft.

Hecate blinks away the after-image of her own father standing just a few feet away, his spectre a long-limbed creature of sharp, pointed angles, almost spider-like in the way he leans on his dual walking canes. “Well met, John.” She essays a smile and returns John’s hug, ignoring the uneasiness that has settled in her stomach. 

“It’s good to see you again, Hecate.” He turns to his daughter and gives her a hug that’s equally warm, laughing when Pippa kisses him on the cheek. “And my heart, you are as lovely as ever.”

He sees Raoul, standing a few paces back and hunkers down. “I’ve heard so much about you, Raoul. Would you care for a hug?” 

He gives John that same bird-like shrug, and avoids his gaze. “Maybe not right now.”

“That’s okay, Raoul.” John pauses, considering his next words. “Has my Pippa told you about our library?”

Hecate feels Pippa’s hand slip into hers and squeezes. “You know, he’s still the nicest man I’ve ever met.”

"Oh? And what of Mr. Rowan-Webb?"

Hecate scowls and looks away, recalling with painful clarity the strange and confusing feelings that had plagued her that one surreal afternoon a lifetime ago. "He's . . . adequate."

They step into the house together, and Hecate is surprised that not much has changed despite the thirty odd years since her last visit. Before she can help herself, she gravitates towards the family wall to the left side of the entrance, fingers reaching for the old frames that lined it.

She falters. There are new pictures amidst the old. Most of them are of Pippa, and she drinks those in, her heart in her throat as she memorizes each one. It’s the pictures of herself that surprises her the most. Granted, most of them seem to be newspaper cutouts over the years, detailing her various achievements.

“Mum was furious when I put the first one up. I was heartbroken for a long time and she”—Pippa jerks her arm up and laughs wetly—“was so mad on my behalf. But Pop knew, you know? He knew I couldn’t stay upset with you. Never with you. I guess he kept putting pictures up even after I left.” 

And isn’t that just— _the most heartbreaking thing Hecate has ever heard?_ To be bereft of a family for so long, only to discover that she’s had one all this time? “You’ve always been my home, Pipsqueak,” she says in a voice broken by grief, unable to stop the tears that are spilling down her cheeks. She accepts Pippa’s handkerchief. (And when did Pippa start carrying one of hers?) Her insides wound tighter than ever. “You’ve been endlessly kind to me.”

“Well,” Pippa says, her own voice high and wobbly, “you’ve been an inspiration, Hiccup my heart. I think it’s safe to say we’re pretty even on who owes who.” 

“Balderdash,” Hecate says. “I still owe you a lifetime of apologies.” 

“Absolutely not!” Pippa says and summons another handkerchief to wipe the wetness clouding her eyes. “You wretched fool. You hapless idiot—“

“And here I thought insults were _my_ specialty,” Hecate murmurs. 

“You don’t get to act the martyr here, Hecate. I will not let you.”

The gods themselves could not hold a flame against the fierceness that burned inside Pippa, the strength of her conviction like a hammer striking against steel. _You could forge a blade with that anger,_ Hecate thinks, dazed at Pippa’s outburst.

She feels Pippa’s power swell around them, vibrating with densely-packed energy, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

She thinks, maybe Pippa already has.

* * *

It’s been a while since Ada has been to the Cat’s Cradle. As ever, the street is packed with witches and wizards, trying to get some last minute shopping done before the long weekend. “There’s so many of us,” Mildred exclaims, brimming with excitement. 

“Oh, Mildred.” Ada smiles and beckons for them to follow her. “We’re but a drop in the ocean really.”

She catches Mildred eyeing a nearby candy store with longing and makes a note to take them there after dinner. “So is this like Diagon Alley?” Julie asks, looking equally impressed at a pair of floating clockwork dragons giving away free tea samples to the evening crowd. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Y’know,” Mildred adds, bouncing in pace with Ada, “like a magical place that’s just for wizards and witches?” 

“I suppose it is.” Ada frowns. “Although I’ve never heard of a Diagon Alley before.”

“It’s from a non-magical series,” Julie explains. She’s taking a sip from a free sample and giggling at the sensation of steam rising from her ears. “You should read it sometime. It’s from that book . . . The Young Wizards or something?”

“No, Mum! It’s from the Harry Potter books. The Young Wizards series has a space _mall_ , remember?”

“Right, right.” Julie expertly steers Mildred away from some fancy-looking broomsticks and grins. “Got any alien wizards you’ve been hiding from us, Ada?”

Ada shakes her head and leads them down a narrow footpath. “I’m afraid if there are any, they still remain undiscovered.”

They step into a homey establishment with rich dark wooden floors and pastel-coloured walls. It’s nice, and the Hubble family is immediately enamoured by the floating lanterns that hover close to the ceiling. Ada brings them to one of the tables by the front window and catches the eye of the woman by the counter. “Ada!” She’s about Ada’s age, with short, curling hair and a wide, expressive face. 

“Elena,” Ada says and lets the taller woman pull her into a very enthusiastic hug.

“It’s been a while, my love,” Elena drawls, a little of her accent slipping. “And who is this? I hope you haven’t left me for a younger woman. With a child no less!”

Ada flushes pink. “Elena, please.”

“Oh but she is very pretty,” Elena continues, winking at Julie. “Must I win you over with my cooking again?”

Mildred squeals and covers her mouth with both hands. “You have a girlfriend, Miss Cackle?”

“We’re more like amicable exes,” Ada confesses, sliding into her seat.

“Only because she loves her school more than she loves me,” Elena grumbles, mock hurt. She gives each of them a menu and puts her hand over Ada’s. “It’s good to see you again, Ada.”

Elena leaves, hips swinging seductively. 

Ada catches the not-so-subtle high-five between the two Hubbles and groans. _Oh what I would give to have a quiet dinner all by my lonesome. . . ._

_And miss all this?_ She sees the bright-eyed wonder in Mildred's open gaze, and the way Julie relaxes next to her daughter, the very picture of contentment. 

It's not so bad, is it? Sharing a little of her world with these two. She feels the weight of Elena's hand on her shoulder, the heat of her body so close and intoxicating. 

No, not so bad at all.

* * *

In Hecate’s youth, dinner at the Pentangles had always been warm and lively, full of stimulating conversation that Hecate usually found compelling enough to join despite her reserved nature. However, without Amelia Pentangle’s sharp wit and charismatic energy, things are noticeably different now. Quieter. More subdued. 

It’s not. 

That it’s bad.

Not really. In some ways, it’s still the same warmth and the same comfort that Hecate remembers. The Pentangles continue to be wonderfully articulate, even if the rhythm of the conversation has slowed considerably. 

It’s just—it’s unsettling, how much has changed. It feels like mourning somehow, like Hecate is suddenly confronted with the fact that things can’t return to how they were before because Amelia Pentangle is dead, and she never got to say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” never got to offer Pippa the comfort that she needed while she was grieving, never got to apologize to Amelia for everything that she’s done. 

Because it’s clear from what little Pippa has said that Amelia has not forgiven her for breaking Pippa’s heart. And it hurts, knowing that she can’t make up for that now.

Regret and loss sink like leaden weights in her stomach, and even that feels a little like she’s trespassing. _I’ve forfeited my right to be judged worthy by Pippa’s mother when I walked out of her life,_ Hecate thinks bitterly. 

“I hope you don’t mind if I borrow Hecate for a bit,” John says as they’re finishing dessert. “I never did get a chance to do the ol’ broomstick talk with any of your other paramours.” 

"Oh, Daddy," Pippa says, exasperated. "If you ever date again, I swear by the gods. . . ."

John vanishes his plate and beckons for Hecate to follow him to his study. “I hate to break it to you, Pippa, but us Pentangles—we tend to be very single-minded when it comes to the affairs of the heart.”

“You’re not wrong,” Pippa says softly, eyes lingering on Hecate. 

Hecate essays a smile back and, with a thundering heart, follows John across the main hall. “You’ve relocated since last I visited,” Hecate observes, examining the small room which overlooked the outdoor gardens.

“Well, Amelia always was an avid gardener. After she died I just couldn’t stay away. I needed something of hers that was concrete—something that was still alive and thriving, even without her.” John sinks into his leather chair and turns towards the window. “I suppose they’re a source of strength for me now. If the pretty little flowers can do it, so can a withered old man like me.”

“You’re hardly withered, John.”

“Perhaps.” 

Cool, icy fear settles across the length of her spine, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room. “John,” she begins placatingly, uncertainty dulling her tongue. “I’m sorry,” just doesn’t feel good enough, not after thirty years of bitter, biting silence. 

The leather chair creaks. “Did you know,” John says softly, “that even after all these years, you’re still so easy to read?” He turns around and meets her gaze squarely. “I could ask you right now what your intentions are with my daughter, but I’m sure I can guess what your answer will be.”

Hecate focuses on her breathing, feeling her pulse beat out a mad tattoo. “I would never—“ She grimaces. “I didn’t think—“

“You couldn’t possibly know.”

Hecate’s face is a study in misery. “I don’t feel like I’ve earned any of this, John.”

He leans forward, making a steeple out of his fingers. “And what is there left to do? Do you want to earn my approval? Amelia’s?”

“I left her, John!” Hecate roars, voice cracking. “Pippa deserves more”—she shudders, feeling phantom fingers around her neck—“but all I’ve done is apologize. As if that means anything anymore.”

John frowns. “I knew Thaddeus, and this isn’t his handiwork.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He pulls open a drawer and takes out a pair of reading glasses from a wooden case. “My vision isn’t what it used to be, but I’m fairly certain that someone has tampered with your magic.”

 _Won’t you keep my secrets?_

The wild, electric surge crackling under Hecate’s skin crumples inside her, spent. “You know.” 

“How long has this been going on, Hecate?” John asks, his cool expression belying the fury dripping in his tone. “And don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. Consent is crucial when it comes to sharing magic with another person.”

“It stopped after I left for college,” Hecate admits. “Miss Broomhead—she would take a little at a time. It barely made a dent.”

“How _long_?”

“Five years.”

“That fetid, festering, pus-covered boil,” John snarls. “She was your _teacher_. By the gods, she could have killed you!”

Hecate takes a step forward and grips his wrist firmly. “It’s been thirty years, John. My power is my own again now that she's dead. And I have grown accustomed to controlling it, wild as it may be.”

“I could have saved you.”

She lifts her lips in a caricature of a smile. “You couldn’t possibly know.”

His expression softens. “I suppose that makes the two of us.” Gently, he pulls away and relaxes against his chair. “When you first came to my home, you showed signs of malnutrition and neglect. I assumed your lack of power was a result of that. I should have looked closer.”

Hecate shrugs. “And maybe if I had stuck around, you would have seen it sooner.”

“Well look at you,” John says fondly, “frustratingly stubborn—just like my daughter.”

Hecate sinks into an armchair across John’s. “That is part of her charm.”

He laughs, warm and full-bellied. “I do hope you can forgive this old man for prying.”

“It’s a father’s prerogative, isn’t it?”

John snorts. “That is a load of bat dung. My daughter is fully capable of hunting you down herself and beating you with a broomstick.” He takes something else out of his drawer and offers it to Hecate. “I’d give it to Pippa, but knowing her?”

“Are you proposing on her behalf?” Hecate croaks, mortified at the sight of the ancient engagement ring: a simple band with blood rubies glittering across the outer rim.

“And risk her wrath?” John closes the plain black box and leaves it in front of her. “I am hoping,” he says with deliberate care, “that at least one of my daughters has enough sense to actually _ask_.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow.” 

Pippa’s fingertips press against Hecate’s collarbone as she captures Hecate’s lips in a chaste kiss, the slightest pressure robbing Hecate of her breath. She wants to cup Pippa’s cheek, to chase after her lips and explore them more insistently, but Pippa is already pulling away, eyes gleaming with an unspoken promise. “Thank you again for letting Raoul stay the night.” 

“Anytime.” 

“I don’t see why Auntie Pip can’t stay with us tonight,” Raoul says. He’s holding onto Pippa’s broomstick, his flushed countenance betraying his embarrassment. 

It’s amazing—how much more relaxed he looks now, his body angled towards them, his attention already elsewhere. He looks very much like a bored little boy waiting impatiently for his parents to let him go so that he can play to his heart’s content.

It’s dreadfully domestic. (Hecate loves every second.)

"Your Auntie Pip has a full itinerary today. By the time she's done, she'll be too tired to come here by broom, let alone a long-distance Transference spell." Hecate watches the way his shoulders lift, dark eyes sharply assessing. "Perhaps when Pippa is done for the day, she can mirror-call you?"

"I'd like that," he says, smiling a little. "Actually, if it's okay with you, um, could you show me around your potions lab later?"

Hecate frowns. “You understand,” she says haltingly, tensing at Pippa’s touch, “that even if you become an adept potions master, you’ll still need magic in order to use any potion that you brew?”

“Hecate, I better go,” Pippa says apologetically, pecking Hecate’s cheek and taking her broom from Raoul. “You be good now, love.”

Raoul deflates. “Yes, Auntie Pip.”

They watch her rise to the sky on her broomstick, becoming nothing more than a pink blur.

“I mean I get it, you know?” he says quietly, once Pippa is gone. “But I still enjoy learning for learning’s sake.” 

And that—well that’s something that Hecate understands all too well. “Once you’ve unpacked and had breakfast, we can go.”

“Really? Thank you!” Raoul gives her a short, awkward hug and makes a beeline for the front steps, his patchwork backpack bouncing with excitement. There's a lightness to his step that Hecate finds comforting. _Maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to end up like you._

She grips that truth close to her heart and Transfers away.

Out of impulse, her magic reaches for Ada's office: an impression of sunlight against stone, of sugar spun into delightful confectionaries, of flowers in bloom. Even after all these years, Ada has been her sanctuary and her dearest friend.

"I really am a fool," she says to the empty office. "I know that I am stronger for what I have gone through and better for it too. Still, all I see are the broken parts of me. I want so badly to believe that I'm the worst. I want so badly to believe that Pippa deserves better than me. I can hardly be a parent to Raoul, let alone to our"—she inhales sharply and tastes acid in her throat, panic bubbling in her chest—"our child. I don't know if I can do this."

She knows every line by heart, has rehearsed it again and again in her head: an eddy of self-defeating thoughts.

But no matter.

If she must pretend at competence then so be it, but she will _not_ let Pippa go a second time. Never again.

She lingers in Ada's office for a while, head bowed, hands clutching her clockwork pendant like a lifeline. She feels Ada's magic in the seams and cracks of her office, reminding Hecate of her grace and dignity, even in the face of humiliation. The Founding Stone might power the school, but Ada is the one who holds it all together, stone by stone.

The second Transference spell is quicker, more directed in its destination. 

"Hecate!" Ada smiles and conjures another chair for her. "Come have tea with Julie and me."

"Is that wise?" Hecate asks. "You are in the middle of a session, are you not?"

Julie rolls her eyes. "Oh where's the harm? You lot are awful when it comes to respecting privacy anyway."

Hecate cracks a smile and focuses on the slow, steady heartbeat pulsing underneath her skin. "Well, witches do like to convene under a full moon and dance stark naked on special occasions."

"Fantastic," Julie drawls. "And here I thought you witches were no fun at all."

Ada chuckles. "You're welcome to join us next time.”

"Perhaps I should leave you to your session after all. I wouldn't want to"—Hecate clears her throat—"impede on Ada's . . . _progress_."

Ada chokes on her tea and sputters.

"Oh shut it, you." Julie grins. "If you must know, Ada's already got a girl tucked away somewhere nice."

"Whatever happened to client confidentiality?" 

"You tell me, Ada. I'm not the one who invited HB to tea." 

“Traitor,” Ada grumbles. “See if I share my snacks with you in the future.”

Hecate relaxes into the conversation, finding the rhythm of it easy enough. It’s an art, the way Julie somehow unravels what’s on Ada’s mind. It feels a little like she’s intruding, really, but Ada doesn’t seem to mind, and Julie’s assured her that their sessions have been largely informal for the most part. “Sometimes it just helps to talk about stuff, you know?” Julie says, patting her arm. “Besides, if Ada really needed some privacy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the Great Hall to begin with.”

So she stays. Maybe she needs a little of that Hubble magic too. 

They’re finishing up when Raoul wanders into the Great Hall, trailing after Mildred, his eyes wide with wonder. Hecate feels a little guilty, leaving him to unpack alone, but there's a certain air of self-sufficiency about him, one that she recognizes all too well. "And here's the Great Hall," Mildred says, turning to Raoul. "If you're lost, this is the best place to go; someone's always around so it's easy to ask them for directions."

Raoul bows. "Thank you again for showing me around, Mildred," he says with all the solemnity that an eight-year-old could muster. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

Mildred beams. "It's all good. I had fun showing you around too!"

"Who's that?" Julie asks, rising from her seat. "Isn't he a little too young to go to your school?"

"That's Raoul: Pippa's adopted son," explains Ada. "He'll be staying here for tonight."

"Between filing paperwork and prepping for tomorrow's ceremony, she's got her hands full for today," Hecate adds. "It's the least we could do to help."

"In fact, why don't you two join us tomorrow?" 

"Ada!"

Ada bites into a pastry and shrugs. "You and I both know that a triumvirate is perfect for a spell celebrating life. You could do worse than bringing these two along."

Maiden, mother, and crone. It would certainly be a boon to have all three bear witness to the birth of their child. "I suppose if Ms. Hubble isn't too busy tomorrow. . . ."

"What’s all this about?” Julie asks, curious.

Before Hecate could elaborate, Ada quips, “Pippa and Hecate are going to have a baby, and we’re going to see it _happen_.”

* * *

There's a keen curiosity to Raoul that Hecate finds refreshing. He is learned, for a boy with no magic at all, and he is cautious despite his eagerness. Perhaps it should come as no surprise given his parentage; after all, Samuel Blackwood was a renowned potions master prior to his fall. And yet, Hecate had assumed that his desire to learn magic was always cursory at best. It didn’t occur to her that he would _want_ to learn as much as he could despite his inability to perform magic. 

_I do have a bad habit of always assuming the worst in people,_ she thinks, watching him walk the length of her glass cupboards. _Consider me thoroughly chastised._

“That’s odd,” Raoul mutters, drawing her out of her thoughts. He’s squinting at a piece of paper left next to a full tray of potions. “You don’t often see a full set of Basilisk venom antidotes, not when there are so few of them still alive today.”

“You’re quite perceptive,” Hecate says, smoothing her features to hide her surprise. “Tell me, do you know what Basilisk venom does to a human body?”

He frowns, pressing idle fingers against the spelled glass. “It’s a paralytic,” he says after a moment’s pause, speaking with the certainty of a scholar. “It can also dissolve our insides if we take it in large doses.” 

_Good._ “And do you know what it does to a mountain giant’s body?” Raoul shakes his head. “It turns them into stone.” Hecate’s chest twists into a knot of hurt. “Years ago, members of the Silver Star coven infiltrated the clan of mountain giants to the north. Under the guise of friendship, they struck trade deals with the giants, exchanging food for potion ingredients.”

“The coven poisoned the food?”

Hecate inclines her head. “Yes. Years later, we would call their graveyard the Mountains of Mourning.”

“That’s awful,” Raoul whispers and uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away angry tears spilling from his cheeks.

“It is.” Hecate hesitates. “I may have brewed those antidotes out of impulse,” she admits. 

“Were you also afraid of turning into stone?” Raoul flushes pink and looks away. “Not that I think that you’re a mountain giant.”

Hecate laughs and sinks into her seat. “Who says I haven’t already turned to stone?” she asks softly.

He shrugs and stares at the vials again, arrested by the the eerie violet glow pulsing within each bottle. "May I have one?"

"Whatever for? I told you, Raoul. None of these potions will work for you."

"For what I need it to be? It doesn't have to work."

Hecate complies, reaching for the latch with her magic, unlocking it with a twist of her fingers, the cupboard door swinging open. "Very well."

Raoul examines each one and takes the leftmost vial. He fishes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wraps it with painstaking care before tucking his new prize away. "Thanks." He finds a seat close to Hecate's desk and wiggles his way on top. "You're probably wondering what it's for," he says in a hushed voice. 

“It would certainly satiate my curiosity.”

He hugs his shoulders and sighs. "When people die, you're supposed to cry, Miss Hardbroom. You're supposed to feel bad that they're gone. And I feel bad. I _do_. I just—I don’t know how to grieve. Maybe,” he sniffs, “maybe I’m turning into stone too.”

“Oh, Raoul.” Hecate materializes behind him and rests her hands carefully on his shoulders, the barest of touches. “It just means that you have a giant’s heart.”

"Then you have to have one too." Raoul shrugs. "It’s only fair."

Hecate gives him a pained, watery smile. "If you insist."

"Anyway, I-I just thought," he stutters, fumbling with his words, "Auntie Pip’s been so good to me, you know? She doesn’t hate me for not being sad all the time and being upset that my mum is gone. She’s like this cure, really." He pats his chest and takes a deep breath. "When I’m around her, I feel like things will be alright."

"And things will be." Hecate lays a hand gently on his unruly mop of hair, feeling a strange peace settle over her. "We just need to do our part in getting better." 

He stills under her touch, and for a moment she wonders if she has gone too far. But then he’s holding onto her again, face pressed against her side, looking so small and fragile that Hecate is sharply reminded that he is only eight, having lost his family and his home recently to an unspoken tragedy. _Just like you, Hecate._

Somehow, this time it doesn’t feel so bad—knowing that they are plenty alike.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorothea Gloom and her wife, Lucia, stand side by side next to the mossy stone archway, looking as regal as ever in their ceremonial cloaks and silver-trimmed hats. "Come back safely," her former deputy murmurs, gently squeezing Pippa's hands.

“Please do.” Lucia smiles and hands over the basket she’d woven for Pippa. “Knowing Dorothea, she’ll fight the old gods themselves if it means bringing you back.” 

“It won’t come to that,” Hecate promises, coming up from behind Pippa, her arm snaking around Pippa’s waist, the press of her taller frame steadying. “Well met.”

Dorothea goes through the motions of formality while Lucia simply continues to stare, amused. “The fabled Hecate Hardbroom. You’re taller than I expected.”

“Oh?” 

Pippa recognizes the mischievous curl of Lucia’s lips just as the silvery blonde says, “I figured you were a small, mean thing, breaking Pippa’s heart the way you did.”

Hecate bristles against her side, ready to strike. Dorothea looks heavenward, exasperation dripping in her upturned palms and her cold countenance. “You’ll have to forgive my wife,” she drawls. “She used to be a mind healer.”

“What made her change careers?” Hecate snaps.

“Her professional curiosity got the better of her.” Dorothea turns to Ada, stepping carefully across the uneven terrain and greets her with that same elegant sweep: palm to forehead, torso slightly bent. “Well met, Headmistress Cackle. I look forward to working with you in the future.”

“And I as well, Headmistress Gloom.” 

Pippa takes Hecate’s arm. “Shall we?”

They step underneath the archway, trailing after Hecate’s familiar, away from the beaten path and into the overgrowth. 

The Archwoods is a place that no longer exists in the mortal realm. It is a pocket universe, one of many scattered across the land, where the boundaries between the possible and impossible blur. Witches of old draw their power here, long before the discovery of Founding Stones. Back then, these Sites of Powers bled magic into their world, drawing out the potential in each witch and wizard. But times have changed, and their transgressions—driving magical creatures into near extinction—remain an ugly scar in Witching history.

Now, only the worthy are allowed to stumble into the Archwoods.

“She is right, you know,” Hecate says, guiding Pippa down a particularly steep slope with a stiff gentleness. "I have hardly been kind to you."

"If this is your attempt at backing out on me, Hecate—"

"I _hurt_ you, Pippa," Hecate hisses. "I don’t want you to choose me out of some misplaced sense of loyalty."

"Is that what you think this is?" Pippa grabs Hecate’s shoulders and steadies herself, feet balanced on a pair of thick roots. "I chose you again and again because you are the only witch I have ever wanted. Do not presume to think that I am here for something as flimsy as pity for you. You are my world, Hecate, but that doesn’t mean that my every decision revolves around you. I am here as much for myself as I am for you—more so, because I am doing this for my school, Hecate. My _legacy_. Surely you understand that much?"

She steps past Hecate, head held high, and takes Raoul’s hand in hers, trembling with excess energy. Behind her, Julie says to a stunned Hecate, "I know a really good marriage counsellor if you need one, HB."

“One more word, Ms. Hubble. . . .”

“And you’ll what? Turn me into a frog?”

Hecate growls and returns to Pippa’s side, taking her other hand without another word. Pippa catches her pouting and stops herself before she could embarrass Hecate further with another quip. Instead, she briefly leans into Hecate’s space and says, "Forgive me for my outburst?"

"Only if you’ll forgive me for underestimating you," Hecate whispers back.

Baby steps.

The fog begins to thicken as they move deeper into the woods. Once or twice, Pippa loses sight of Morgana, only to see the somber black cat a few paces away, waiting patiently for them to find her again. 

They pass by a particularly impressive oak when something in the air shifts: a pressure so great that it almost makes Pippa lose her footing. The familiar static-crackle of magic is there, but also the touch of something greater—something beyond the realm of reason. Pippa feels that brief brush of the otherworldly and clings to Hecate, trying to grasp at some semblance of control, fighting against the sudden animal fear that’s threatening to overtake her.

“Steady, steady,” Hecate murmurs in her ear. Pippa focuses on the sound of her voice and finds that she’s shaking all over, unable to stop. In front of them, Raoul stands alert, one hand resting on top of the sleek black fur of a full-grown panther. _Morgana,_ she thinks numbly, staring up in awe at the coil of power in Morgana’s long limbs, her muscles rippling with ready strength. 

_It always take people by surprise—the first time,_ Morgana purrs in her mind, soothing Pippa with her deep-chested rumbles. _I had to practically drag Hecate home when I first brought her here._

“Lies,” Hecate says, rubbing Morgana’s ears affectionately. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.” Pippa meets Mildred’s stricken gaze and essays a smile. “Are you alright, Mildred?”

“I’ll be right as rain, Miss Pentangle. Just give me a moment,” Mildred says, cheerfully enough. She’s curled next to Julie who looks unaffected but confused.

“Magic?” Julie asks, exasperated. 

“Magic,” Ada confirms, offering Mildred an arm to hold onto. 

There’s something about the magic in this place that makes everything feel more real and alive. Condensation highlights the depth of green shining from nearby leaves, accentuated by other varying shades that colour rough bark and smooth stone. The forest debris darkens with every shadow thrown by looming trees, ready to swallow any unsuspecting traveler into another world. In the distance, the land seems to tremble with the footsteps of titans stepping slowly into the hidden spaces that guard them from intrusive eyes.

Eventually, they arrive at the centre, where the hollow trunk of a great rowan tree stands firmly rooted. 

_Step forward, supplicant,_ Morgana says in a clear ringing voice. 

Pippa obeys, approaching the hollowed tree with measured steps, and gently places the handbasket inside. Beside her, Hecate crouches next to the tree, summoning a cloak of midnight, their offerings neatly wrapped within. Pippa accepts the bundle from Hecate and unfolds the great cloak, her breath catching at its contents.

She remembers the twin braids of hair, their essence freely given; the letters from past students, their greatest joy; and preserved pieces of their old brooms, their greatest regret. What catches her eye, however, is the all-too familiar engagement band, its ruby rim glinting despite the clearing’s eerie glow. 

Pippa picks up the ring nestled on her old baby blanket and looks searchingly into Hecate’s eyes. "Your commitment?" she demands, the writhing uncertainty in her chest giving way to anger.

She welcomes that heat, that roaring displeasure sinking underneath her skin even as an icy calm settles over her. Fear is a small and distant thing, nestling against the hollow of her breast, spiderwebbing across bone and muscle like black ichor. (But she does not feel it. She is too hot and too cold. Let anger be her weapon.)

Hecate’s commitment has always been in the abstract. She sees it in the way Hecate hesitates, in the way she puts her guards up, in the way she chooses her words with care. Pippa knows that her desire to fix their past is genuine, but the shape of their future remains nebulous against the backdrop of Hecate’s volatile emotions. 

She _loves_ Pippa—that much is true.

But the instinct to run lingers. Pippa can see it in her eyes, in the way she flexes her right hand, itching to use a Transference spell.

“If you’ll let me,” Hecate says—slowly, slowly—as if approaching a great beast, “I would spend the rest of my days with you, looking after our child together.”

 _If you’ll let me._ As if she’ll never have a say.

“Not like this,” Pippa says softly, handing the ring back to Hecate. She’s unsure of where her bearings are, and whether or not she’ll tip over at any moment, but she has to say it now before she loses her courage. “Hecate, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, but I don’t want you to commit to us while an apology still hangs over your head.”

“I don’t know how to feel the way you want me to feel,” Hecate says, the rising frustration in her voice and the flash of accusation in her eyes, digging into Pippa’s chest, leaving glass shards in the ruin of her heart. (It’s okay, it’s okay. She can’t hurt you anymore than she already has.)

Pippa reaches for her, hands curling around her forearms. “I understand, Hiccup. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to make up for everything right at this very moment. Give us time, my love. That is all I ask.”

“You’re afraid,” Hecate says softly, seeing past the anger that is her armour. “You think that I might leave once I feel I no longer owe you.”

Pippa cracks. “Hope is a devastating thing to lose.”

Hecate nods. “Do you think, in the future—?”

“Yes.”

They fall silent, staring at each other with frightened expressions, thunder in their hearts, lightning in their veins.

“Auntie Pip,” Raoul says, startling them out of their reverie. He stumbles towards them, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he navigates through thick, gnarled roots and mossy, uneven ground. He steadies himself on Hecate’s arm and blurts, "Auntie He-kitty," face reddening to the tips of his ears at the error.

"Auntie. . . ." Laughter bubbles from Pippa’s chest, warm and ebullient. "You called her Auntie."

"I-I suppose I did." Raoul ducks his head and pulls out a black handkerchief, pressing its contents towards a shell-shocked Hecate. 

"Aren’t you going to get that, Auntie Hekitty?" Julie asks from their little semi-circle about ten feet away, grinning from ear to ear. Beside her, Mildred gives them an encouraging half-smile, much too pleased to snark unlike her mother.

Hecate unfolds the handkerchief to examine Raoul’s gift, pointedly ignoring their witnesses. 

"A potion?" Pippa asks, confused. "When did you have the time to brew one, my dear?"

"It’s um, it’s Miss Hardbroom’s."

Hecate smiles—the sort of smile that Pippa loves so much: just the slightest quirk of her lips and crinkle of her eyes. It’s the kind of addicting smile that Pippa would try to draw out of her in their youth, delighting at the sight of it. "It’s a promise," Hecate says, placing the violet vial on top of their other offerings. "It’s between Raoul and I, though I suppose it applies here too."

"We swore we would, um. . . ." Raoul hesitates, turning to Hecate for permission. She inclines her head. "We wouldn’t shut you out again, Auntie Pip."

"That’s an odd thing to swear on a bottle."

"Perhaps a story for another time?" Hecate unfurls to her full height and offers Pippa her hand. As one, they retreat to the centre of the semi-circle, Raoul gravitating close to Pippa’s hip, his warmth a comfort. 

Morgana eyes Pippa and slowly dips her head in acknowledgement. She turns her back to them, large paws pressing firmly against the mossy earth in anticipation. She roars out a summons.

Pippa has known magic all her life. Still, nothing prepares her for the tremendous force that bears down on them, so much greater than before. The air thickens with moisture, making it harder for them to breathe. Colourful leaves swirl in dizzying patterns against a backdrop of hazy green light, shadows shifting fretfully amongst the lengthening trees. Long, slender digits pierce that dream-like scene, curling around a gigantic tree, scraping against its many scars. Pippa gasps and almost buckles at the sight of hollowed eyes staring back at her. _Steady, steady._

Hecate’s magic reaches for hers, wild and confident. _Do not be afraid, my love,_ it sings in her bones—a fierce battle cry. _I will protect what’s mine._

The titan slithers into the clearing, its body expanding with every step, vine-like limbs swaying rhythmically by its sides. It lays a massive hand on top of Morgana’s head and scratches behind her ears, making the giant panther rumble-sigh, leaning into its touch.

“Oh my hat,” Mildred murmurs, stunned. “You’re brilliant.”

The titan pauses and regards Mildred and her mother with that same inscrutable gaze. It folds into itself, flowering vines rippling in the dim light. With the grave air that only a forest spirit could possess, it presses a palm against its forehead and bows deeply before them.

Mildred responds in kind, fumbling with her words: “Well met, Great One.” She hesitates before adding in a small voice, “Oh. Um, you’re welcome? It’s really quite alright.”

“What is it, Millie-love?” 

“They’re just uh, grateful,” Mildred says, smiling helplessly. “For what our family’s had to sacrifice and stuff to reignite a Founding Stone.” 

“With so few of these realms still open to Witchkind, I’m not surprised,” Ada says softly. “Someday, the only sources of magic we’ll have left are the Stones.” 

The titan stirs and turns towards the hollowed stump, leaving in its wake flowers in mid-bloom. With loving hands, it cups the stump and hums a gentle lullaby that rattles. Light spills from its fingers, its radiance blinding. When the hymn fades to silence, the titan pulls away and is swallowed by the forest gloom.

The solemn reverie is broken by the sound of a babe crying. "Hecate," Pippa says, throat thick with tears. 

They retrieve the child together: a girl with soft tufts of golden hair like an eerie halo. She has a strong grip and eyes the colour of midnight orchids. "Persephone," Pippa says, leaning against the crook of Hecate’s neck, their child warm against her skin. "Persephone Constance Pentangle."

Constance. Hecate stiffens, uncertain of how to take in the quiet cadence—the shape of her mother's name on Pippa's lips.

"You’ve come up with a name already?" Hecate asks archly, trying to hide the surprise from her voice.

Pippa laughs, sweet and unworried. "I’ve had her name inscribed in my heart for a long, long time, Hecate. If you want to name the next one, well"—she kisses Hecate soundly, with the bold disregard of a woman who knows what she wants—"you’ll have to convince me first."

"As you wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel is in the works though it'll be a while before it sees the light of day. Personal obligations and all. 
> 
> I do hope you all enjoyed Baby Steps! It was a blast to write. c: Thanks to, [Hovercraft79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hovercraft79) for the baby name suggestion. I appreciate it lots.


End file.
